


Contrapposto

by Owlship



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Ambiguous Post-Canon AU Where Max Stays, Bodyswap, Established Relationship, F/M, Post-Canon, Trope Bingo Round 5, Unexplained Wasteland Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-04-25 11:58:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4959772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Owlship/pseuds/Owlship
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Strange things can happen out in the wastes, everyone knows that. Time doesn't move quite the same, distances and landmarks shift, life and death are not always complete opposites- but this? Being displaced from your own body and put into someone else's? Furiosa's never heard of anything remotely like it, not even from the wildest tales.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Contrapposto

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "Bodyswap" square on my [trope_bingo](http://trope-bingo.dreamwidth.org) [card](http://v8roadworrier.dreamwidth.org/417.html).
> 
> This is a pretty light take on the subject considering the character's various canon disabilities and control issues, because while it would be _really cool_ to [explore some of the questions bodyswap fics raise](http://v8roadworrier.tumblr.com/post/130634663121/fadagaski-bassfanimation-fadagaski)\- I realized that I don't have the energy to write it (hint hint someone should write that version for real please so I can read it)

Furiosa knows something is wrong before she opens her eyes, before she even shakes off the last shreds of sleep, really. She's lying for some reason mostly on her stomach instead of her back, her chest rising and falling without any hint of the restriction she's grown used to, her hand-

She snaps her eyes open. There's a left hand, flesh-and-bone, attached to her arm.

It takes her a second to realize that it's not really her hand, not at all. The fingers are broader, coarser, the skin tanned darker, scarred in unfamiliar ways. The right hand matches, flows seamlessly up to arms that are more heavily muscled than her own should be. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, noticing that along with the absence of scar tissue on her lungs the weight of her breasts appears to no longer be there, either.

Furiosa opens her eyes again, checks to be sure that she's still in the same car she went to sleep in, the same kilometers of empty wasteland and rocky outcroppings stretching into the distance out the windows.

Then she looks across the way to see what can only be her own body lying in the car's other seat, still sleeping. She shifts upright, which confirms some things about the state of her lower anatomy that she isn't going to dwell on right now, and wonders what in the hell is going on. A glance down at herself shows an undeniably male body, clad in the familiar clothing of her Fool.

“Max,” she says, voice unfamiliar and grating to her own ears. In the other seat her body snaps awake, eyes wide and unseeing at first, expression growing deeply confused as Max (And she's not going to consider the possibility of it being anyone else- if she's somehow in his body, he'd damn better well be the person in hers) becomes aware of the situation.

He makes a wordless questioning noise, strange coming from her throat, sits up to stare at her in bewilderment before looking down at himself.

“Furiosa?” he asks, once he's finished fluttering his hand around helplessly, settles for cupping the nub of her- of _his_ left arm. It always aches most when she wakes up, phantom nerves firing off during the night.

She nods, some part of her glad to know that whatever this is, she's not alone in it.

“What happened?” she asks, as if he might know any better than she does. Everything had been normal when they parked for the night, the area quiet and safe enough that they hadn't even felt compelled to sleep in shifts.

Max shrugs, the gesture out-of-place on her body, before hunching in on himself like he's afraid to move more than necessary.

Strange things can happen out in the wastes, everyone knows that. Time doesn't move quite the same, distances and landmarks shift, life and death are not always complete opposites- but this? Being displaced from your own body and put into someone else's? Furiosa's never heard of anything remotely like it, not even from the wildest tales.

She rubs her hand down her face, hides a grimace at the feel of rough stubble she encounters. As terrible as it was to be inhabiting a body not her own panic won't help them any, so she focuses on the immediate.

“You'll want the arm,” she says after a moment of watching the way Max rubs at his stump. When she had first lost the limb, sometimes the only thing to do was trick her brain into thinking there really was still a hand there, and only then could she work out some of the phantom cramps. She helps him strap the prosthesis on, trying not to think about how strangely wonderful it was to have a second living hand of her own again, trying much harder not to think about how it was only a temporary reprieve.

That settled, Furiosa reaches for the door's handle, pausing halfway through opening it when another thought occurs to her. “You know how to piss like a woman?”

Max frowns before his face dawns with understanding, and he nods. She's not wholly convinced he won't end up pissing down his leg anyway but doesn't offer any advice- it's his own leg to worry about, for now. Turns out that pissing as a man is every bit as convenient as she'd always thought it would be, and she spares a moment to be jealous that this, too, is only temporary.

The brace Max keeps on his leg isn't really doing shit for her, too loose to provide much actual support. The joint is weak, and moving it more than a few degrees results in a startling sort of dragging rasp of bone-on-bone that sends shivers down her spine before the pain spikes. Walking even a handful of meters is unpleasant, but manageable.

Though they're of a height, all her proportions are wrong now that she's borrowed Max's body. He's broader than her, more densely muscled, limbs a trifle shorter, and it makes her feel subtly off balance.

If Furiosa thinks about it as just borrowing someone else's rig for a while, it's almost enough to tamp down the terror and anger she feels at being so displaced. True, she had never before contemplated the thought that her own _body_ might no longer be hers, but unless this is the single most vivid dream she has ever had, it's happening all the same. Adapt or perish.

Max returns from his own trip to the waste ditch to see her fiddling with the brace. “You, uh, need it tighter,” he says, gesturing with what used to be her hand.

He helps her adjust the brace, shifting it around and tightening the straps to the point where she can just about rest her entire weight on the limb, the injury no longer taking the full brunt of it. The brace itself isn't painful, but there's a restricting pressure about it that she agrees must be hard to sleep in. Makes sense that he'd loosen it at night, given the chance.

Furiosa digs out their rations, the same dried blocks of mealworm paste she's been eating since she first became a War Boy, thousands of days ago. Max always grimaces at it, but it's good nutrition- dense, easy to cultivate, resistant to spoilage.

She takes a bite and immediately gags, has to force herself to swallow rather than spit out the mouthful. The taste has never been her favorite thing in the world, sure, but it was inoffensive enough. This is- she checks to make sure that the rations haven't gone off, but it looks the same as the day before, doesn't show signs of vermin.

“Huh,” Max says thoughtfully from besides her, his own portion already gnawed on.

Furiosa takes a swig of water, hoping to rinse away the aggressively bitter-sharp-wrong taste of it.

“You could have warned me,” she says, as if there had been any way to know that their tongues apparently taste things differently.

“Thought y'were just used to it,” he replies with a shrug.

She looks down at the block of food in her hands, grimaces to think that she'll have to eat it all. Nothing for it, unless she wants to starve, and the taste wasn't _that_ bad- the shock of encountering it was the worst part, probably. Furiosa decides to take another bite to test that theory, finds it every bit as disagreeable as the first, and sighs.

No wonder Max looks forward to scavenging for bush meat so much, she thinks, if this is what the ordinary rations taste like to him.

“We're switching your rations when we get back,” Furiosa says, “The Dag's been talking about a bean mix.” Max just hums while she forces herself to finish the paste, wastes another measure of water getting rid of some of the aftertaste.

They let the meal digest for a while, and ordinarily they would have already been driving by now, but she's hesitant to leave the area while still in the wrong body. It's relatively safe here, not in any marked territory, and it seems a better idea to get used to their new circumstances while they have the luxury of peace and privacy.

“We should spar,” she says. Furiosa could put this body through its paces on her own, but there's something to be said for working out the tangle of emotions she's feeling with a little controlled violence.

Max cocks his head to the side as he contemplates this, and seeing his mannerisms splayed across her own body has yet to get less eerie.

“Alright,” he says after a moment, then brings his hand to fiddle with the belting of the prosthesis, not undoing the buckles just yet.

“Leave it,” she says. Either they'll somehow reverse this soon enough that it would be worth it to keep his hind-brain from panicking over the missing limb, or there will be time enough to ease him into life as an amputee. She can manage dodging it well enough, should he forget to check the heft of it.

They sweep clear an area of bigger rocks, face off while they slowly stretch and warm up. Furiosa doesn't feel as if she has a much better grasp on her altered dimensions yet, but she can feel muscle memory responding to the familiar postures, and that helps.

Max steps forward, his habitual starting stance ill-fitted to his borrowed body. She alters her own position slightly as she waits for him to rush her, curious to see how their fighting styles will mesh with the new equipment they're driving.

With each attack, each block and dodge, Furiosa feels more at ease being in Max's body. It has different limitations than hers, different advantages as well. She can't remember to favor her left leg to keep weight off it when possible, forgets that her borrowed hand feels pain- but there's more brute strength behind her blows, helpful twitches of muscle memory for moves she's seldom tried.

Slowly, the simple satisfaction of gaining more and more control and familiarity with this new body edge out the anger and helpless fear she'd been feeling from being so displaced.

Max seems hesitant at first, but he too grows more confident, until it's almost like they're sparring back in the sand pits at the Citadel. After a particularly vicious flurry of jabs from his metal hand she sweeps his feet out from under him to get him pinned to the ground, her now-greater body weight holding him down, both of them panting from the exertion.

She falters then, seeing nothing but the anonymous head of someone pinned face-down, recognition impossible when it's clearly not the Max she's used to.

Max mumbles something from underneath her, wriggling a bit until Furiosa eases up on the hold she has on him, and- oh. Her borrowed dick is hard where it's pressed up against the muscular curve of what had been her ass, throbbing in time with her pulse now that she's aware of it.

She rolls off him hastily.

“Happens,” he says, not bothering to do more than turn his face towards her. Which she _knows_ , she's certainly sparred with enough men to be aware that it's not unusual for them to get hard over nothing. And it's not as if she's never been turned on by a friendly fight, herself.

But it's not her body that Furiosa is in, and it's not even remotely the same feeling- she feels arousal like an itch under her skin, heat spreading low in her gut from the inside out, a slow burning ache. This is more intensely concentrated, a sort of electric feeling when the seam of her trousers brushes against skin pulled too tightly. She gasps, can't help but bring one of her hands down to feel her erection through the leather.

“Mhm,” Max hums besides her, “Feels nice.”

Furiosa slants a look to his direction and sees that he's flipped on his side to face her and is likewise exploring over the tops of his clothes, a tiny pleased smile on his face.

If they had never slept together before, exploiting their borrowed bodies like this would feel like a gross violation. As it is, she's pretty sure Max is every bit okay with her using his body this way, and she finds that she doesn't mind him getting a first-hand look at what she feels.

“We could,” she offers, and turns to face him more fully. Having sex was about the furthest thing on Furiosa's mind when she woke up, but now... It might be interesting, to see how fucking works from a man's point of view. There's no way to know when this situation will reverse itself (And it _is_ going to at some point, because she refuses to live the rest of the life in this body), and it would be a shame to waste the opportunity.

He catches her meaning and nods, and they hastily regain their footing to dust off the sand that clings to their clothes. Furiosa grabs one of the blankets from the interior of the car while Max detaches the prosthetic, places it carefully into the center console.

The question is, what does she want to do first. She knows Max's body well enough that she's figuring she'll only come once, which is a bit of a disappointment, but she's sure she can manage to wring at least a few orgasms out of her body for him.

Furiosa lets him settle onto the blanket besides her before pulling him into a kiss, closing her eyes against the strangeness of seeing her own face so close. It doesn't quite feel like kissing Max usually does- the techniques are still there but his current lips are shaped differently, and the taste of him underneath the remains of their shared breakfast is completely wrong.

Ordinarily she would be content to keep trading kisses until Max has had his fill, but she's feeling impatient with the pace of things. It's not such a different feeling, despite the body she's now inhabiting, and she wants to know what _has_ changed. She breaks off to nip at the skin just under her jaw, a reminder that she knows the body he's in better than he does. He retaliates by tugging sharply at her hair, and the resulting shiver is definitely something she's going to want to examine in greater detail- later.

“Can I lick you?” Furiosa asks, and Max's face blanks for a second before he nods eagerly.

She slides down the length of his body to mouth at the junction of his thighs, breathes in the heady scent that had until recently been her own and therefore unremarkable. Even this hits her differently, makes her mouth water with anticipation.

Looking at her body from an angle she's never seen before is like looking at a different person almost, an illusion helped along by recognizing Max's body language instead of her own, and it makes for an enticing view. The result is that it's easier and less weird to shuck off the leather trousers and drink in the sight of Max's bared cunt than it is to look him in the eye.

Furiosa's never seen this part of herself, not since she was barely more than a girl and her Initiate Mother had handed her a mirror and told her to take a good look, which hardly seems to count after all this time. The unfamiliarity means that it really is like she's having sex with a different person instead of her own body, and whatever shreds of apprehension remained melt away.

He's wet already, slick and eager for her to put her mouth to good use. Furiosa is used enough to how she tastes that it's a bit strange to find that Max's tongue picks up the flavor of her cunt differently. Shouldn't have been a surprise, really, considering how different the morning rations had tasted, but at least this time it's an agreeable change.

It's been a while since she's eaten someone out but she knows what her body likes, the sensitive spots to find and techniques to use. What's a truly new experience is watching how Max reacts to the sensations. She finds herself distracted from her task, bringing her gaze up to watch him as he writhes on the blanket.

“Furi,” he gasps out when she gets him to come the first time, and she grins because he's never had the sort of rolling string of orgasms that she gets to enjoy when her partner knows what they're doing. Furiosa keeps working, brings one hand up to massage his nipples while the other plays with his opening, joins in with the movements of her mouth over his clit.

After letting him come a few more times, she pulls away. Max whines a bit, pupils blown wide even under the bright sunlight, and she kisses him quiet.

“Mhm, your turn,” Max says once he's regained his breath, and he snakes his hand down to palm her erection while she lets out an eager groan. Furiosa's been pretty much ignoring her dick, not wanting to risk wasting her one shot on a mediocre orgasm, but it's still more than half hard even without the stimulation.

She leans up away from Max to strip off her shirt and run a hand over her chest, the flat planes of it unfamiliar from this angle, and frowns to realize that her nipples don't seem to be at all sensitive. Another downside of this body compared with her own, and she spares a moment to picture fitting out Max with piercings once they're set back to rights.

With still no sign of danger, it doesn't feel like much of a risk to strip entirely bare before switching positions, Furiosa now lying on her back while Max hovers over her.

It's easy on her no-longer-braced knee which means she doesn't have to worry about it spiking with pain at the wrong moment, even if it's not a position she's used to sharing with him. Ordinarily she'd be the one riding him, not the other way around, and seeing her body leaning above her sparks off a rush of vertigo because that _is_ still what's happening, in a way.

The first brush of bare skin over her cock has Furiosa' hips reflexively twitching upwards, and Max huffs out an amused breath at her expense. The friction of it is what's amazing, more so than the pressure that she ordinarily seeks out, and it's all she can do to not just take her dick in hand and stroke herself off.

Max takes hold of the base of her cock and then sinks down onto it with one fluid motion, practiced, and she would spare a though to contemplate that but her mind is taken up entirely by the sensation of warmth, and wetness, and she can only let out a wordless moan at the feeling. He stays seated on her for a moment unmoving, more for Furiosa's benefit than his, before slowly lifting himself off only to drop again.

Being fucked with a dick in her vagina has always felt good, in a sort of general way, but by itself it was never her favorite. Feeling it from the other side is incredible, all soft living heat surrounding what's become to feel like the whole of her body. She can't help but want to bury herself to the hilt and never leave, except that the drag of friction feels so delicious she can't stop moving, short spasmodic twitches of muscle memory and instinct.

Max moves above her skillfully, hips rolling down to meet her unsteady thrusts. Just as she thinks she might be able to smooth out into a real rhythm she feels his hand come down to play with her balls, and the unexpected addition of sensation has her crying out as an orgasm crashes over her.

Furiosa throws her forearm against her eyes to block out the glare of the sun as she pants. The aftershocks don't last as long as she's used to, but the feeling of Max working his cunt against her softening cock is almost as good- at least until she grows too sensitive to bear more.

He picks himself off of her and moves to stretch out along her body, but evidently forgets to account for the missing length of arm because he falls against her chest rather abruptly, face smashing into her collarbone.

She lifts her arm up of her eyes to see him glowering darkly at the offending limb, and though it's on her face the disgruntled expression is so uniquely _his_ that she can only weakly suppress a snicker at the sight. Furiosa reaches out a hand to pull him the rest of the way up, kisses the lingering frown off his face.

She feels loose and sated, tired even though it's the middle of the day, and she sighs a little because she had always assumed Max was just lazy whenever he dozed off after coming.

“Scratchier than I thought,” he says, running his fingers over the scruff on her face.

Furiosa nods, eyes slipping shut, “I don't mind.” If it had been a concern, she'd have insisted he shave or grow it out enough to become soft. Wasn't like they were hurting for razors back at the Citadel.

Max hums in reply, and lets them lay peacefully for a few more minutes before clambering off. He tosses her clothes down at her and she accepts them reluctantly, but admits that it's time enough to stop lying around.

They have to help each other with putting their clothes to rights; Max has no idea how to wrap the cloth around his breasts properly, her brace proves a stubborn creature to adjust. Another thing she hopes they don't have time to learn to perfect.

All the physical exertion has settled Furiosa into her borrowed body fairly well. It doesn't fit her quite right, the way her own body does, but the shakedown run is over and she knows she'll be able to get the responses she needs, should it be required.

With their unspoken agreement to not break camp, there isn't much else to do but find another way to while away the day.

Furiosa field strips one of their guns for cleaning, the pistol Max favors keeping at hand, while he pops the bonnet of the car to poke at the engine. She sights down the barrel, takes imaginary aim at a random rock formation in the distance, and mimes firing. The callouses of her borrowed hands fit with the worn grip of the gun well.

As she reassembles the pistol, it occurs to her that this is the perfect chance to finally resolve their long-standing argument of whether it's her aim that's better or merely her eyes. Furiosa maintains that she's worked hard for her skills with a rifle, while Max always halfheartedly grumbles about an unfair advantage.

“Max,” she calls out, and he slams the hood down to look at her through the windshield. She holds up the freshly-cleaned gun for him to see, “How about a contest?”

It won't be the same as testing against a long-range rifle, of course, but ammo for them is harder to come by and she's loathe to waste any. Max agrees readily enough, and they set the terms: a target at forty meters and three shots each. If it comes to a tie after three rounds, they'll set up a further target for the rifle.

“Stakes?” Max asks as they pace off the distance.

“Besides the joy of proving you wrong?” Furiosa says, just for the way she knows he'll scowl. “I still have a bottle of Ace's second-last batch of moonshine. You win, and it's yours.”

His latest run was the usual swill but Ace had hit on just the right combination for that particular batch, and it was coveted by just about everyone back at the Citadel. In truth she has a second bottle stashed away as well, a perk of being his former crewmate, but she needn't tell Max that.

“Alright,” he says, and piles up rocks for her to set the target on. It takes him until they reach the car again to come up with a suitable wager.

“Massages,” Max says, and rubs the shoulder of his arm under the prosthesis' strapping. “Your shoulders, or that leg. Whichever you have. For, hmm, half a moon.”

The reminder that they have no way of knowing when, or even _if_ , they'll be returned to their original bodies serves to undercut some of the levity she'd been feeling. But it's a worthwhile offer, for all that she really hopes she'll be back in her own body when she cashes it in.

“Deal,” Furiosa says, and Max smiles at her.

She lets him shoot first, balancing the prosthesis to steady his aim. His stance is different than hers, and it barely registers that she's looking at her actual body anymore. By this point she just sees Max, as strange as the notion seems, his mannerisms identifying him more than the face he's wearing.

They take their time shooting, idly calling out taunts and suggestions, killing time in the relative peace. It's a close competition, the both of them more than used to relying on excellent aim to save their lives, but by the end of their three rounds Furiosa is crowned the victor.

“Managed just fine with your own eyes, Fool,” she says as they dismantle the now severely battered target. “We can try the rifle, if you insist...” Furiosa trails off to see that Max doesn't look very perturbed at all, indeed has a small smile stretched across his face.

He steps in close and kisses her with that smiling mouth, softly like it's not a lead-up to anything, before pulling away to suggest that he try and scrounge up something better than the mealworm paste for dinner. There's still plenty of light left before the sun sets but it's starting to cool off, shadows slanting long and dark over the sand, and if there's any critters to be found they should be active about now.

Later, after he returns dusty and clutching a pair of slightly-mangled lizards victoriously, they risk lighting a fire since even their drawn-out shooting competition hasn't seemed to draw any attention. They fuck again once the stars come out, introducing each other to the more sophisticated tricks of their bodies now the initial rush has worn off.

Neither of them has any idea whether this strange wasteland magic will reverse by itself, but since it started while they were asleep it makes sense that it might end the same way. Getting there is the difficult part, the strangeness of their borrowed bodies more apparent in the dark with nothing else to serve as a distraction, but eventually they both drift off.

When Furiosa wakes sometime early the next morning she opens her eyes to see Max's slumbering face across the way, and she smiles to herself even as her left hand clenches and spasms, angry to be reduced to a phantom once more.

She much prefers things this way, when all is said and done.


End file.
